


Tactility

by gentledusk, littleliontree (gentledusk)



Series: Meyer is oblivious and needs to get a clue [3]
Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon (Anime), Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types, Pocket Monsters: X & Y | Pokemon X & Y Versions
Genre: M/M, Obliviousness, Slow Burn, Touching
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-30
Updated: 2016-04-28
Packaged: 2018-04-12 01:08:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4459472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gentledusk/pseuds/gentledusk, https://archiveofourown.org/users/gentledusk/pseuds/littleliontree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Meyer's never been so aware of just how much Professor Sycamore touches him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yoshi12370](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yoshi12370/gifts).



> Prompt: Pre-relationship: Sycamore seeing Meyer missed a spot of oil on his face and goes up and wipes it off with his thumb but unconsciously continues to touch his face longer than necessary. Meyer doesn’t protest but stops Sycamore when he starts having goosebumps. After they act like it never happened.

Meyer might not be the most observant person in the world, but he notices enough. He’s aware that Professor Sycamore touches him a lot. The professor seems to be a fairly touch-oriented man in general, and isn’t shy about showing it with friends, Meyer included. Meyer has absolutely no problem with this—it’s not doing any harm, after all, and it just seems to be the way Professor Sycamore is. There’s not really any reason for him to object to it, so he lets it be.

That all changes one morning at the shop.

~

It starts off like any other day—get out of bed, get ready for work, check if there are any repairs to be done before opening, and so on. A ring of the bells over the door soon after he opens up for the day signals a visitor entering the shop, and a familiar voice calling his name lets him know that it’s Professor Sycamore who’s decided to drop by. Which isn’t anything too out of the ordinary, so Meyer pays it no mind as he wheels out from under his latest repair job and hops to his feet.

“Hello, Professor! Is there something I can help you with today?” he asks, pulling a rag out of his pocket and wiping his face off.

Professor Sycamore smiles, shaking his head slightly. “Not a repair, if that’s what you’re thinking. I actually came here to—oh.”

Meyer glances around, looking for the source of Professor Sycamore’s distraction, but sees nothing noteworthy or unusual. “What is it?”

“You seem to have missed a spot,” Professor Sycamore replies, stepping closer and pointing up to a spot on his own cheek.

Ah, that would explain it. He reaches up to swipe the rag across his face again. “Better?”

“Not quite… ”

“Now?”

Instead of replying, this time Professor Sycamore chooses to step even closer, reaching up and pressing a thumb to Meyer’s cheek. He drags it across Meyer’s skin, pulling away again to hold up his now grease-covered thumb.

Meyer opens his mouth, about to thank Professor Sycamore, but his jaw snaps shut as the professor reaches up again, this time pressing two fingertips to Meyer’s cheek. He stands still and silent as Professor Sycamore’s fingers stroke over him skin, content to wait until the professor is satisfied with the state of his cheek.

Professor Sycamore isn’t looking him in the eye at the moment, focused as he is on whatever stubborn bits of grease must still be clinging to his skin. Back and forth, back and forth, in a rhythm that could almost be called soothing, fingertips trailing along, lifting up, then moving back to repeat their motions again. Eventually long, slender fingers press against his skin all at once, thumb hovering just above his cheekbone, almost as if he’s cupping Meyer’s cheek. He’s standing close enough that Meyer could count his breaths, could pick out every shade of grey in his eyes if he chose to, and his breathing grows shallow and goosebumps prickle over his skin and Professor Sycamore is suddenly far, far too close for comfort, even though he hasn’t stepped any closer at all.

“Stop,” he rasps out, tongue scraping against the inside of his parched mouth.

Professor Sycamore jerks back as if he’s been burned.

“I’m sorry—”

“No, no,” Professor Sycamore cuts in, waving his arms in front of him. He’s not quite meeting Meyer’s eyes. “I’m the one who should apologize. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I don’t know what came over me.”

“It’s—” _fine_ , Meyer wants to say, but the word gets stuck in his throat.

Professor Sycamore shakes his head. “It won’t happen again, I promise,” he says. He steps back and turns to leave, and the distance between them suddenly seems like a yawning chasm. “I’ve imposed on you too long already. I’ll be seeing you, Meyer. Take care.”

The sound of the door swinging shut behind him echoes in the empty shop, bells jingling blithely in the deafening silence left behind.

~

That night, even tucked snugly under his covers, his skin still prickles with cold—or is it heat?—when he remembers the feeling of those fingertips on his skin.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meyer cuts his hand. Luckily, Professor Sycamore is there to make it all better. Or not.

The days continue to pass normally after that incident that apparently will never be spoken of (Professor Sycamore hasn’t brought it up, so Meyer’s certainly not going to do so). The fact that Professor Sycamore seems to be studiously avoiding any unnecessary physical contact with him, however, only serves to make him even more aware of just how much Professor Sycamore would touch him before—a pat on the back here, a gentle hand on his arm there. These days, all he gets is a polite kiss on the cheek in greeting, or maybe a short handshake sometimes after they’ve finished a research session. He’s not _moping_ about it or anything, no matter how much Lumi keeps wandering over to him for a slightly staticky hug (something she tends to do more often when she thinks he needs it). He’s just… concerned about a friend. That’s all.

In fact, he’s so lost in concern about a friend that he doesn’t even notice when said friend walks in the door. Although that could have something to do with how he’s just managed to somehow cut his hand on a particularly sharp metal plate. He hisses, blood welling up from the freshly broken skin and starting to trickle down his palm. He clambers to his feet, looking around for something (relatively) clean to staunch the flow of blood, and then one “let me see” later Professor Sycamore is grabbing Meyer by the wrist and dabbing at the blood with tissues. He doesn’t even bother asking where the nearest sink is as he leads Meyer unerringly to the tiny washroom at the back of the shop.

“Ryu?” says Lumi, peering over from her spot by the till. Meyer nods at her to let her know he’s all right (or at least in good hands, probably) before he’s dragged inside.

He supposes he could protest that he doesn’t need help, that he can handle this himself, but it’s been a long time since he’s been taken care of like this, a long time since he’s been the one being fussed over instead of the one doing the fussing. Professor Sycamore’s fingers are blessedly cool on his stinging hand, using more tissues to apply light pressure to the (shallow and insignificant, really) cut until the bleeding eventually slows to a stop. He flashes Meyer an apologetic look as he grabs still more tissues from the shelf over the sink, dampening them and using them to carefully wipe any dried leftover blood away.

“Are you all right?” Professor Sycamore asks suddenly, eyes flicking up to Meyer’s face. “Your hand’s shaking.”

So it is. Meyer hadn’t even noticed. He curls his good hand into a fist and bumps it against his chest. “I’m fine. It takes more than a little cut to keep me down!”

Professor Sycamore levels him with a speculative gaze for a few long moments before his face suddenly breaks out into a mischievous grin. “You sure? And here I was all ready to kiss it better.”

Meyer opens his mouth, then shuts it again, not even sure himself of what (if anything) he’d meant to say. He watches wordlessly as Professor Sycamore pulls a band-aid out from the cabinet under the sink and sticks it carefully over the cut. He’s not even sure why he’d been so taken aback by the quip. Professor Sycamore had just been joking around.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” Professor Sycamore asks, holding Meyer’s hand up to inspect his handiwork. “You look a little… lost in thought.”

“I’m fine, thanks for asking! I just, well… this reminded me of when the kids were younger, that’s all. I used to do this all the time for them.”

“Really?”

Meyer’s lips quirk upwards into a small smile. “Yeah. Bonnie was always running around excited and curious about everything, and Clemont was always tripping—so precise while working on his inventions, but just as clumsy at running as he is today. Dear ol’ dad had to patch them up like this and kiss them better quite a few times.” He swallows hard against the sudden lump in his throat. They’re ok, he tells himself, not for the first time. They’re out there on a journey of their own now, seeing things they’ve never seen before and having the time of their lives. They’ve got their friends with them, human and Pokémon alike, ready to look out for each other every step of the way. They’ll be fine, even without him there to look out for them. They’ll be ok.

“Worrying about them?”

Meyer starts, then gives Professor Sycamore a rueful grin. “How’d you guess?”

“You worry about them a lot.” A statement, not a question.

Meyer lets out a long breath. “Well, yeah, of course I do. I am their father, after all. It’s not like I don’t trust them to look after themselves! But… they’re still my kids, you know? I can’t help but worry.”

Professor Sycamore squeezes the hand that Meyer hadn’t even noticed he was still holding, gently enough that it doesn’t aggravate his wound at all. “They’re fine children, and they’ve picked some wonderful companions as well. They’ll be all right, I’m sure of it. They’re lucky to have you to worry about them.”

Meyer ducks his head. “That’s kind of you to say.”

“I mean it,” says Professor Sycamore. “You’re a fine man, and Bonnie and Clemont are lucky to have a father like you. They’ll be all right.”

“I… thank you,” he says, looking up briefly and then back down again because he can feel himself tearing up, and while he regularly cries about his kids in public (much to their dismay, probably), it’s different here, alone with Professor Sycamore in a room that suddenly feels far too small for the two of them. The walls feel much closer than they did before, as if they’re closing in around the almost tangible way Professor Sycamore’s presence is filling the entire room, and he’s too hot and too cold all at once and his palms are getting sweaty and he wonders, faintly, if he actually did lose more blood than he thought because he’s starting to feel a little dizzy and it’s starting to get harder and harder to breathe.

Professor Sycamore is still holding his hand.

“Meyer,” Professor Sycamore says, letting go of his hand (a pity, or is it a relief?) only to press the back of his own hand against Meyer’s forehead. “Are you really sure you’re all right?”

“I’m-I’m fine,” Meyer stammers, but he knows his voice is breathless and his cheeks are prickling with the same hot-and-cold sensation he’d felt all those weeks ago. He does his best to muster up a reassuring grin. “Honest. Thanks for your concern.”

If anything, this only seems to make Professor Sycamore even more concerned, grey eyes searching as a frown creases his brow. But he steps back after a few moments, hand dropping to his side, and nods at Meyer regardless. “Well, if you say so. Take care of yourself, all right? I’d hate to see you getting sick.”

Meyer flashes him a thumbs-up with his good hand and ups the wattage of his grin a few notches. “Will do!”

And with one final clap on the shoulder, Professor Sycamore heads out the door.

“Ryu?” he hears soon after the jingling of bells that signals the professor leaving the shop.

It’s Lumi, poking her head in the doorway.

Of course. He has someone who worries about him too.

“Don’t worry, Lumi, I’m all right,” he says, holding up his hand for her to see. “See? All better.”

Lumi eyes his face skeptically, clearly not entirely convinced, but with one final look, she leaves him be.

Now alone in the tiny washroom once more, Meyer sighs, staring into the mirror for a good few moments before turning on the faucet and splashing some cold water onto his face.

No time to dwell on things. He’s got work to do.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meyer's not himself when he's tired.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The ideas for this chapter came from conversations with my brother about just when Meyer manages to find time for sleep with the shop to run, a city to patrol, and repair jobs to do. Despite him bugging me to finish it, it took me months to finish this chapter... sorry bro OTL.

Despite his assertion that he has no time to dwell on things (especially not one Professor Sycamore and the whole hand-bandaging business), Meyer still finds himself getting increasingly distracted as the days wear on. He’s not sure exactly _why_ he’s distracted, only that even with the week’s repair jobs piling up, he can’t bring himself to concentrate on any of them. Add that on top of some increasingly demanding shop customers and more vigilante patrols than ever due to a spike in crime this week and Meyer’s feeling pretty beat. He’d like nothing more than to drag himself to bed and pass out for a day or so, but there’s just so much work to do, and then Professor Sycamore calls asking if he has time for a repair, and really, what kind of friend would he be if he didn’t help out a friend in need? And maybe Professor Sycamore had looked a little concerned when he’d walked through the doors, but he’d managed to wave it off with a laugh and an only half-forced smile. He is happy to see the professor again after all, despite everything.

So now here he is in the lab again (it feels like he ends up here more often than not these days), staring at the machine in front of him with bleary eyes and a blearier mind, unable to remember exactly what he’d been intending to do mere seconds ago. He’d resort to the age-old method of kicking it and hoping that jolts it back to life, but that’s not what a professional would do, and he doesn’t want to damage the machine. He’s sure he _knows_ how to fix it, but he simply can’t think of the necessary steps to do so at the moment no matter how hard he tries, and he’s getting nowhere just sitting here having a staring contest with it. Hell, he can barely even remember what the machine is called or what it actually _does_ , and how can he remember how to fix it if he doesn’t even know what it is?

“ _Fuck,_ ” he hisses under his breath, and looks up to find Professor Sycamore staring at him, wide-eyed, from the doorway.

“Meyer?”

“What?” he bites out through gritted teeth, the hard edge of frustration and irritation and just plain exhaustion not quite willing to leave his voice. He aches down to his bones, he’s not sure he’ll be able to drive home safely with the state he’s in, and to top it all off, someone has just walked in on him looking like a fool.

Professor Sycamore’s eyes only widen further, but he stands his ground nonetheless. “Are you… all right?”

“I’m fine.”

“It’s just, I’ve never heard you swear before… are you really sure you’re all right?”

“I’m _fine_!” he snaps, rising to his full height while still brandishing a screwdriver. “And I’d be even more fine if you left me alone to fix this damned machine!”

He regrets the words almost as soon as they leave his mouth. Professor Sycamore flinches as if he’s been struck, blinking mutely for a few seconds before pasting on a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Ah… I’m sorry. I’ll just—leave you to your work, yes?” He turns to leave.

“Wait,” Meyer whispers, watching Professor Sycamore freeze on the spot. “I—” he stops, swallowing against the lump in his throat, shoulders slumping with the weight of the past few weeks and the weight of how terribly he’s just acted. “I’m sorry.”

“There’s no need to worry about it,” says Professor Sycamore, turning to face him with that awful, placating smile. “I shouldn’t have bothered you.”

Meyer shakes his head vehemently. “No, I was the one who was wrong. You were concerned about me, and I paid you back by snapping at you.” He heaves a huge sigh, tempted to hang his head like a naughty child instead of looking the professor in the eye like an adult. Now that the rush of aggravation has left him, all he’s left feeling is just…run-down and empty and drained. Like when his scooter runs out of gas and he hasn’t had the time to give it a bit of a loving tune-up, he supposes. “I’ve just…been having a bad week, I guess, but I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. I’m sorry.”

Augustine’s wary look immediately morphs to one of concern, and Meyer can’t help feeling like even more of an ass for snapping at him. “What kind of bad week?”

Meyer sighs again, lifting his cap and running a hand through his hair. “You know—unreasonable customers, lots of patrolling to do, nothing really out of the ordinary.”

Professor Sycamore steps closer and peers at him for a few moments, eyes roaming all over Meyer’s face, before abruptly zeroing in on his eyes. “Have you slept?”

“I—wha?”

“Have you slept.”

“Of course I have!”

“For more than an hour or three here and there, Meyer. I mean when was the last time you had a nice, proper sleep in an actual bed?”

“Pot, kettle,” Meyer mutters, since he is more than familiar with Professor Sycamore’s irregular sleep schedule, but he knows the professor is right.

“If you were your dad—”

“Now there’s a disturbing thought,” Meyer cuts in, because apparently lack of sleep also means lack of tact. Maybe he really does need some rest—

“—then you’d be telling yourself to _go the fuck to sleep_ right now.”

Meyer is momentarily struck speechless, even though he’s the one who started with the swearing in the first place. “…You sure _you’re_ not the one who needs some beauty sleep?”

Professor Sycamore gives him a mulish stare, lower lip jutting outwards into a pout. “I’ll sleep _with_ you if that’s what it takes to get you to go to bed!”

Meyer coughs. Strangely, he thinks he can hear the faint sound of several other people bursting into their own little coughing fits as well. “You don’t have to go quite that far,” he says.

Professor Sycamore’s switched to puppy eyes now. Too bad nearly a decade of Bonnie’s best wide-eyed, soulful stares have basically rendered him immune. “Please?”

“Please, what? Please sleep with you?” More coughing ensues. Clearly, there’s some sort of bug going around the lab. Clearly.

Interestingly enough, Professor Sycamore flushes red at his words. (It’s a cute look on him, he thinks, before the thought is swept away into the void.)

“Th-That’s not what I meant!” the professor sputters. The distant coughing is really getting ridiculous now. “And anyway, I’d at least take someone out for dinner first before propositioning them!”

Meyer considers this. Come to think of it… “You’ve taken me out for dinner before,” he points out, and his internal censors must _really_ be taking a hike, because the next thing he says is, “Does that mean you’re propositioning me?”

Professor Sycamore gapes at him, mouth opening and closing soundlessly like a Magikarp. To be fair, Meyer himself would probably be gaping at this entire situation if he had the energy to think harder about it. As it is, he’s just left standing in detached amusement as the redness of Professor Sycamore’s cheeks darkens and he flounders for something to say.

“W-Well!” he says, tugging at his collar and giving Meyer an exaggerated wink. “I certainly wouldn’t be opposed to it. You’re a handsome, hardworking man, after all. You’re really quite the catch.”

Meyer releases a short bark of laughter, bending down to set the screwdriver he’d been holding onto down into his toolbox where it won’t be tripped over. When he straightens up again, Professor Sycamore has sidled close enough to grab his shoulders and start steering him towards the nearest couch. “Thanks, I think. Though I’m pretty sure this ‘catch’ is too big for a regular net.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” says Professor Sycamore as he pushes Meyer to take a seat. “I’m sure you’ll fit perfectly.” Meyer raises an eyebrow at that, which for some reason makes Professor Sycamore’s blush return full-force. “O-On the couch! Yes! I’m sure even as big as you are you’ll, er, fit comfortably. On the couch. Lie down, won’t you?”

Meyer wonders vaguely if Professor Sycamore’s sudden onslaught of stuttering has anything to do with the earlier coughing fits springing up across the lab. “All right, all right,” he says, kicking his shoes off and lying flat on his back. True to the professor’s word, he does indeed fit. The couch is comfy and obviously well-loved, though he’s sure in his current state even the bare ground would be a welcoming bed. He can already feel his eyelids starting to slide shut. “Don’t let me sleep too long, all right? And… I’m really sorry about how I acted earlier.”

Professor Sycamore smiles down at him, a genuine smile this time. He takes a blanket off the back of the couch, unfolds it, drapes it over Meyer’s body, and even tucks it beneath his chin. “I already told you, don’t worry about it. I forgive you. Now go and get some rest.”

The last thing he’s aware of is a warmth that has nothing to do with the blanket coursing through him as Professor Sycamore reaches up to remove his hat, the lightest ghost of fingertips brushing through his hair. But before he can determine whether or not he’d imagined it, the sweet call of slumber beckons to him, and he tumbles readily into its dark, welcoming embrace.


End file.
